


Every Road Leads to an End

by ThePaeGuy



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gothic, Horror, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-23 04:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaeGuy/pseuds/ThePaeGuy





	1. Welcome Home

Prologue

“_Ruin has come to our family. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. Gazing proudly from its stoic perch over the moor... It is a festering abomination! I beg you; return home; claim your birthright, and deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows…”_

-Letter to the Heir from the Ancestor

I have returned to the Hamlet; reluctant as I am to stay in such a foul place. The air here feels tainted by some evil that wafts down from the hill on high, the ruins of our old estate seeming to loom over the village like an omnipresent and spiteful god. Even the Old Road here was taken by bandits, overrun by the presence of nature and beast. This is no place for man anymore. If not for Dismas and Reynauld, I fear that I too may have been overcome by this place. It is almost as if there is a ravenous presence here and to break guard would be to invite it to consume you whole.

At present; I sit, penning in my journal as I await the new arrivals for excavation of the Ruins. I received a letter about a fortnight ago from someone I long thought dead; an Ancestor of mine who had bled our family of all good fortune and graces. It was he, who brought our family shame; searching for something, deep beneath the manor… Mind you, this is all hearsay and rumor. There isn’t a time I can remember where servants did not whisper behind my back of supposed terror inflicted by our progenitor, but without physical evidence to substantiate their claims…

However, it is because of this that I find myself so intrigued by his letter, although much of it is illegible due to the bloodstains found upon it after its recovery next to his body. It would appear that, not only are these his only words to me; they appear to be his last words before leaving this gods forsaken land. Indeed; if anything, this would appear to be an admittance of guilt from my Ancestor of his wrongdoings, which he has left to his successor to clean up. Ah, but such is the way of nobility, it would seem. Among his effects delivered to me was the deed to the Hamlet signed and notarized; as well as the desk where they… found him. As such, I appear to be the sole beneficiary left in our accursed line.

It is strange. While I have never met the man, I can almost hear his voice when I look upon his writings, as if it was something known to me all my life, almost calling me, whispering to me from the depths of memories that I cannot begin to extract from the darkest corners of my mind. I would be remiss to dismiss the connection of blood that flows from our veins, but could that truly carry memories that I had not even borne witness to with my eyes? My Ancestor was said to have dabbled in curious arts and manners; it is not outside of the realm of possibility, though the thought perturbs me. I will have to see if he left behind some recollection of these arcane missives.

I find his notes scattered about, although much of it is either unintelligible, written in another language that I have yet to decipher, or too cryptic to make sense of for the time being. At his desk, however, scrawled into the wood, in what appears to be my Ancestor’s writing was… unnerving.

“_Welcome home, such as it is. This squalid hamlet, these corrupted lands, they are yours now, and you are bound to them._”

None of the laymen or servants had mentioned the message left for me and there is no blood in the divots of the carving, as such, it must have been inscribed after his death. Perhaps it is simply a cruel joke from the common folk, meant to strike fear into me as an attempt to drive me once more from my ancestral home. While this is the only logical explanation, looking upon it fills me with an unknown sense of dread.

On the topic of the townsfolk, none of them so much as batted an eye at me when I arrived. I had half expected to be driven off immediately; much to my surprise, they instead welcomed me. All of them appear to be struggling; some are on the verge of insanity, barely keeping their grins on their face, if only by holding their hand in front of their mouths as, as they bid me enter their town with hungering eyes. Others seem to suffer from the loss of loved ones, begrudgingly accepting me as the new master of this realm, perhaps in the hope that I might undo the folly of my predecessor. Mostly, they seem to be exhausted as they mill about the town, lugging their burdens with them from place to place as they go about their daily lives.

Here in the Hamlet, something hangs in the air that would choke the life out of someone unsuspecting. There are no birds singing the tune of the morning sun. No children play in the street, making racket amongst the dirt and cobblestones in the afternoon. The night is seldom accompanied by much other than the wind and the occasional shriek in the distance from the forest. When I look up into the sky, I see more stars here than I have across all of my journeys throughout the world. They feel much like eyes, watching from the distance. Waiting.

I must pull myself out of these depths, however. If I am to properly coordinate these expeditions into the darkness, I cannot fall into them before we even begin. This sinking feeling will pass and I will reclaim the glory that has been lost for our house. I can hear bray of the horses and the cackle of the caretaker. He must be greeting the newcomers; it would be best if I go out to inspect them, new recruits that they are. Maybe Reynauld is through with equipment inspection and could join us; the time of our first true test is at hand. Gods protect us from what lay in those crypts. I will make this right; I swear it.

-Frederik von Aiger, 8/22

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The creaking wagon bounced back and forth along the branch-covered dirt road, jarring Saladin awake. _It is a blessing to have slept at all; I suppose,_ the Occultist mused to himself, remembering the stories of bandit attacks along the Old Road. He glanced around him inspecting his fellow travelers. A Hellion sat next to him, peering down the path, holding her glaive steadily against her shoulder, leaning forward and ready to pounce at the sight of an interloper. Across from him, a Jester leered at him, his bells softly jingling as the cart bounced along the Road. The last of the traveler’s was a masked man, clad in white and gold; he held a large, broken blade across his lap. _Are things so dire to seek the aid of a dying man,_ Saladin pondered as he gazed at the Leper.

His thoughts were interrupted shortly by the hacking cough of the man sitting at the helm of the wagon; a hunched old man who introduced himself only as The Caretaker, though it would appear all cares had flown from his, such was the nature of the permanent smile that marred his weathered face. The coughing fit shifted quickly into a small chuckle as the wagon stopped. “We have arrived,” the Caretaker croaked through his teeth, “and it would appear the master is here to greet us, what good fortune we have today. We depart in a day’s time, for those who find themselves lacking of disposition fit to our home. Don’t be late now.” With his warning, the wagon ground to a halt and its passengers disembarked.

As Saladin moved from the cart, he studied his new surroundings. It was a dismal place, this Hamlet; the town seemed dead, its inhabitants and buildings slumping from the wear of the tragedies that had befallen them. The entirety of this small village seemed broken and dirty; even the Abbey next to the Tavern, typically kept pristine, seemed dulled with the rest of the town. There is no life to be made here.

By comparison, the man in front of the party of adventurers seemed quite composed, if a bit shaken. Obviously of nobility, stood a man before them one could only assume was the lord of this slovenly hovel; though how such a distinct gap between the two could be made would be left for someone with more strict moral standards to grasp with. Accompanying him were two others: a Crusader; clad in heavy armor and fitted with the accoutrement of his faith as well as a Highwayman; his hands resting on his hips, just above his pistol and dagger as he scanned the party.

“Good day, weary travelers,” the man before them started. “I am the Heir to this wretched place you see before you; and have asked you here to establish a contract with you. For those of you that seek wealth and power; you need look no further, for what better place to find such than among the tombs of those who had so much. If glory and redemption be your vice, then we can supply you with that which you desire; for nothing could compare to your participation in driving back the horrors that lurk in the dark.” The Heir faltered slightly as he coughed into his handkerchief before quickly resuming. “Of course, you will be compensated and room at board afforded to you. What little luxuries we have here are at your disposal. If you mean to stay, take up a room at the Adventurer’s Guild, just to the east, near the Blacksmith. Dismas, Reynauld,” he motioned to the Highwayman and the Crusader respectively, “and myself will be departing shortly on an excursion into the Ruins up the hill; I hope to see more of you there with us.”

He curtly bowed at them before turning toward the Blacksmith’s building, smoking pluming out of its worn chimney. Saladin looked at the Heir’s back before glancing towards the Adventurer’s Guild and then back toward the Stagecoach. As he looked, a figure quickly passed in front of him; the Leper moved with strange alacrity toward the derelict hall. Not to be outdone, the Hellion quickly followed behind him, shaking her shoulders out while walking. As the pair walked, a slightly jingling made Saladin turn his head to the right, where the Jester stood, cocking his head.

“Looks like this town is full of fools; I’ll fit right in!” The Jester giggled, as he walked, his gait almost a double step as he pranced towards the Guild, fixing his lute as he went. Saladin sighed as he, too, moved towards the Guild. Preparations would need to be made; texts reread and incantations practiced. To move the space between ours and theirs requires precision and every inflection needed to be perfect, unless he wanted to invite disaster. The pact he struck will go a long way, but practice is ever the way to perfecting one’s craft, every artist knows this to be true; and who knows if the seal will hold against the ravages of what lurks in the dark? As he trudged up the decrepit steps; he coughed slightly, red staining his hand. More blood would be required, it seems and the work waits.

Entering into the Guild; Saladin was met with dusty tables and weary faces: it had been some time since last these halls were occupied by more than the ghosts of yesteryear. The Hellion sat at the table grimacing while the Jester sat across from her, laughing mad. The Leper appears to have absconded towards his room. At the desk, a grizzled man sat, appraising the newcomers, while the woman beside him merely threw them a glance and sighed, “Don’t put any stock in them till they make it back next week. If they make it back...” her voice trailed off, leaving little room for interpretation, as she returned to running her whetstone over her axe; the metal sound cleaving the silence within the room.

Undeterred, Saladin approached, “A room; preferably towards the back end. I do not wish to be bothered by the pattering of footsteps while I study.” Across from him, the man simply glowered at him before grabbing a key from inside the desk. “Hopefully, you’ll be worth the trouble you cause. Room 212. Name’s Dirk. That’s Liz. We’ll provide room; for food, see Gunther at the Tavern. Talk to Liz or I if you find something worthwhile while on expedition. If you bring back some materials, maybe we can even help you out a bit; start teaching you how to best make use of your skills out there. ” Dirk tossed the key over at Saladin, before leaning back against the wall.

“Are there any spots left open on the next run?” Saladin replied.

“Sure is; just the one. You looking to get in? They leave in about an hour.”

“Allow me to settle my things; I shall be ready when they arrive.”

Dirk laughed, slamming his fist upon the table. “Not one, but two newcomers, willing to set out immediately? Ah, you’re either brave or foolish, we’ll find out soon enough. We’ll send up for you once Frederick gets back from his errands. Good luck.” And with that, Saladin set off for his room, eager to begin preparing for the journey below; and he could feel, too, it was ready to begin as well, to let loose its power upon the earth once again. He would have to remember to keep it in check, lest he lose himself to its whispered promises, like so many others before.

Striding up the stairs, Saladin noted the rooms; 212, second to last in the line. He would be able to see the stars from this position and perhaps, could ordain something from them, if he had the time. As time passed he unpacked his apparatus and bound books, when suddenly Saladin heard soft thudding coming from the room next to his; 213. _What could the Leper be doing in there?_ He pressed his ear against the wall and heard a small clattering, familiar to his ears. _Books perhaps? Maybe he seeks to cure his illness here_. Then a voice rose up softly like a whisper. “Soft rain precedes the violent thunderstorm. It will echo across the sky.” As he listened, a knock came from his door, followed by short words from an unfamiliar voice, “Its time.”


	2. A Trick of the Light...

Chapter 2: A Trick of the Light

Hard leather and steel clicked against the old stone and an unpleasant air hung about these Ruins. It was stale and dusty, yet heavy and clingy. The torches carried by the party lit the way, the Heir supplying them with more as they ran through them in the ever encroaching darkness. The walls of this ruined manor seemed ready to crumble at any given moment, indeed, there were blocked paths that could have easily been journeyed, had they only thought to bring a shovel or two, to lighten the work.

_N'GHFT ULN, NW H' AINAH,_ it screamed in the back of Saladin’s mind. He clutched the elder sigil he had engraved upon his shoulder and the voice seemed to relent. _Indeed, the dark calls, but we are to stifle it._ The Heir stood in front of him and behind him only Dismas, the Highway man, muttering something about covering their backs. At the head of the party was Reynauld, followed closely by the unnamed Leper; both with swords at the ready. They’re job on this excursion was simply to map a portion of these Ruins in an attempt to better understand the layout, however foolhardy the errand proved, as the tunnels shifted from time to time, according to some information provided by the townsfolk from adventurers who had returned.

“Worry not, comrades,” Reynauld started, as if sensing the inner turmoil within the party as the crept ever onward, “for we are the flame; we will banish the darkness in this place and illuminate the way forward.” His proclamation echoed against the stone halls. At first, the echo almost emboldened the statement, but as it clambered back against them, it seemed as if the depths mocked them, as if the stones themselves had a malevolent will that challenged the interlopers against their due course.

The first couple of rooms had been empty; save for a sack here or a bookcase lying in the hall. Nothing of note as of yet, according to Reynauld, though, unnoticed by the Heir, it would appear he had stuffed some gold from the sack into his pocket, Saladin had noted. However, this appeared to be the extent of the “evil” that lurked around these halls. While the air was tinged with an ominous feeling, the clack of bones was distinctly missing from the sounds echoing out through the darkened vistas. Until, at least, they propped open the door at the end of the hall.

Light spilled into the room and was met by a cacophony of hisses and the rattle of bone against metal as the party moved into the room. Before them stood an assortment of skeletal figures; some wielding crossbows, others with clubs and swords. In the front, towered a couple larger undead, each with a shield and axe. At the back, a smaller form glared at them, a small dagger in one hand and a goblet curiously held in its other.

The torchlight seemed to momentarily stun them, as if the light itself was an unrecognizable substance, giving the party the advantage they needed to set the pace of combat. The first to take action, Saladin held his symbol of power, a battered skull with an burnt candle forward, channeling his pactmaker. “_FHTAGN SYHA'H!” _uttered Saladin’s lips in a voice unlike his own. Large, flailing tentacles appeared above the farther ranks, thrashing a crossbowman, while the smaller undead nimbly moved beneath them. Quickly following suit, Dismas held his pistol forward firing out a scattering blast that peppered the skeletons in the front; while it had little effect on the larger creature, the distinct sound of bones and a crossbow hitting the floor were clear among the din of combat. Charging forward, the light from the Heir’s torch painted a grim shadow the Leper swung his large, broken blade downward, cleaving one of the foot soldiers in twain, its bones falling to a heap on the floor. Lastly, Reynauld moved, weighed down by his armor, but still able to move before the creatures, pushed forward, bringing his holy wrath down upon the large bone defender in an attempt to smite it.

While it appears to have been wounded, the lumbering creature moved forward, slamming its shield into Reynauld, sending him reeling backwards into Saladin, blood splattering out from his mouthpiece from the weight of its heft blow. “Such a terrible assault cannot be left unanswered!” the Heir cried, the light from his torch flickering in the darkness. A slight twang and click could be heard as a bolt flew out from the darkness, sinking into the Leper’s shoulder; he grunted, though showed no other signs of slowing as the undead bore down around him. Dismas, now in range of the strange bone courtier in the back received from it a goblet of strange black liquid, thrown in his direction, splashing against him.

“It burns!” He cried, though, noticeably, there appeared to be no wounds on him. Pressing its advantage, the skeleton hissed and once more emptied its cup in Dismas’ direction, spraying him with its foul contents. Over his compatriot’s cries, Saladin moved, beckoning his eldritch benefactor to rend his foe before the party. Tentacles once again sprang into existence, this time in the midst of the fray, pulling the goblet wielding undead to the front lines, much to its dismay and destroying the bones littering the floor.

Another bolt rang out, this one; too, aimed at Dismas, however, despite his allegations of flame, he managed to dodge the shot, which went wide and skittered against the stone floors. He reflexively fired back, his pistol ringing true, putting the undead marksman back into his grave, his bones rattling against the floor. The Leper, not missing a beat, pressed forward, striking towards the courtier, however, his weapon slammed into the stone, the courtier rattled, but still very capable of dodging such easily telegraphed attacks. Reynauld, however, caught the opening, as the courtier was off balance and unable to move, and rushed forward, the point of his blade splitting its skull asunder, and it fell into a heap on the floor, its goblet clanging against the floor.

The last undead standing, the bone defender once again thrust its shield forward, this time at the Leper; however, unlike the Crusader, he stood firm, grimacing against the shield. “The time tested oak stands strong against such light winds that would only shake leaves from its branches.” He spoke softly before quickly retorting with a swing of his own, chopping the undead asunder and leaving the standing combatants battered but alive. The torch burned a little lower, as they looted the corpses, Dismas, collecting the treasure of the fallen as he aimed to scout forward in an attempt to better ambush the undead again.


End file.
